


The Man In Green

by Tmae



Category: DragonFable
Genre: ......ACTUALLY, AND CYSERO, AND WARLIC LEARNING ABOUT THOSE TWO THINGS, Gen, I don't count those tags as spoilers bc lbr it's the premise of the fic, THERE THAT'S A TAG NOW, Urban Legend Cysero (Artix Entertainment), an alternative name for this one is THE ONE WHERE WARLIC IS NOSY, and I still love it so much, and I'm so glad you guys came up with it, honestly urban legend Cysero is the BEST IDEA, or YET ANOTHER ENTRY INTO TMAE LOVES THE RESET, the /TITLE/ gives it away, the SUMMARY gives it away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tmae/pseuds/Tmae
Summary: Some things are constants. Not many things, certainly, but some. Things that, across universes, you will find in every culture in every species. Things that, no matter where or when in space and time you travel, you will always find.Urban legends, though they are not always called such, are one of these.Lore is no exception to the rule.And of their tales, none are as widespread as that of the Man In Green.





	The Man In Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syntax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntax/gifts), [Hnybnny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hnybnny/gifts).

> I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT TO CROSSPOST THIS FOR TWO WHOLE YEARS??? _OOPS_  
Classified it as a gift fic on here bc that's basically the equivalent of tagging you in the original tumblr post, I figure :3c After all, it wasn't _my_ headcanon, I just ficced it bc I heard it and Immediately Had To Fic It

Some things are constants. Not many things, certainly, but _some. _Things that, across universes, you will find in every culture in every species. Things that, no matter where or when in space and time you travel, you will always find.

Urban legends, though they are not always called such, are one of these. Tales told in hushed voices between the young in the dead of night, whispered across campfires by the older, passed along from mouth to mouth until nobody is quite sure where they came from in the first place.

Lore is no exception to the rule. If anything, with the saturation of the magic in the world, Lore has a richer history of such tales than most. Adventurers who bear claims of mysterious wingless dravir who appear only for a passing moment before vanishing, tales from farmers who swear up and down that they have seen horses that walk on two legs, warnings to travellers of odd young waifs who appear at the edges of paths in the forest, asking for help only for those who follow them to vanish forever… the tales of Lore are as varied as they are many.

And, as with any such tales, some are known to only specific areas, and others travel widely, changing in accordance to their locations.

And of these, none are as widespread as that of the Man In Green.

* * *

Be you hailing from or travelling through the kingdom of Greenguard, the mountains of Volkenraand, the forests of Tkaanie, the deserts of Kaer Sterra, even the vast Shapeless Empire, the people around you will have heard of the Man In Green. As far as such tales go, this one is a close to universal as it comes.

And, perhaps even more bizarrely than simply the spread, the tale does not change much from place to place.

Always, there is a man dressed in green who appears. Always, nobody has seen him before. Sometimes his arrival is to towns and villages, sometimes in the path of travellers on the routes between them. Always, he will approach someone who is present. Always, he will ask them if he can have a picture. If one agrees, he will appear happy and pleased, thank the one with whom he took the picture, and then leave. If one declines, he will appear disappointed – in some tales, sad – and leave without any further interactions.

There are variations to this tale, of course, but even these variations have constants. In some, he arrives appearing upset and brightens up when he sees the person he requests a picture with. In others, he approaches more than one member of a group. In yet others, he appears to look for someone among a group and seems disappointed, then leaving without asking for a picture.

As tales of his nature go, the Man In Green is rather benign. Never has there been a tale with his negative reactions going beyond sadness or disappointment. Despite what variations there are, every story about the Man In Green that there is seems to agree on one simple fact – he just wants a picture, nothing more.

There are many theories as to what precisely he is and even more about why he wants the pictures. From an otherworldly being seeking to build an army out of those whose pictures he takes, to a tricksy fae playing an elaborate joke, to a ghost wandering the land searching for his loved ones, almost every possibility that there could be has been suggested at some point or other.

Those who subscribe to the ghost theory have no idea just how close to the truth they are.

* * *

The box had been on the kitchen table when Warlic entered the room and he had promptly given it the wide berth that such a threat deserved.

He knew that he hadn’t been the one to leave it there, after all, which meant the only possible culprit was Cysero. And things that Cysero left lying around places were usually better off left alone if they were spontaneously combusting or exploding, as they had a tendency to do. Especially when they looked as innocuous as the box did. Appearances _deceive_.

It was on Cysero’s side of the yellow line anyways, so he had no reason to spare it any more thought.

Deciding not to spare things any more thought is generally a good and viable tactic where creations of his roommate are concerned, he discovered fairly early on. The ability to ignore utter chaos in the background of your life unless it directly affects you was a hard earned, hard trained skill, but one that came in useful quite frequently when living with the Mad, Magical Weaponsmith.

On this occasion, however, it turns out to be a double-edged sword.

He bites back several rather uncouth words as _something_ crashes into the back of his legs, sending him stumbling and bracing a hand against the counter to stay upright. He whirls around to identify the cause and fixes a glare on the pair of laundry golems – who’s entry he must have tuned out - clearly in the middle of a fight on the table. They both freeze and then flee the scene together, whatever conflict led them there in the first place seemingly forgotten.

He redirects his gaze to the floor, looking for whatever hit him.

It’s the box from before, clearly knocked flying by the tussle. Because, of course, despite the yellow line being enchanted to keep the myriad of experiments and accidents (on both their ends, much as he hates to admit it) from crossing over, there was nothing to stop an object propelled by force alone.

It’s also lying lid down, cracked open with the contents scattered across the floor.

He sighs and then crouches down, with every intent to scoop the box’s contents back into it, stick it back on the table and just go about his day. He turns the box over, moves to start and-

His intentions fizzle out when he realises that each of the small objects - bits of paper, it seems - are written on in a language that he doesn’t even remotely recognise.

That means that it’s either a language from a very secretive people, or it’s very, _very_ old.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he picks one of the things up to get a closer look. It feels more like card than paper and the light catches it in a slight way that gives away that it’s glossy. Very _odd_ paper, it seems. 

But then, this paper is _Cysero’s,_ so he supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised that it’s odd.

He turns it over and his train of thought speculating what they could be grinds to a halt.

_A photogaph?_

A high quality photograph, at that. Somewhat faded, presumably with age, but high quality nonetheless. It’s of Cysero and a young pink-haired woman that he doesn’t recognise. She has a slight point to her ears, a gleam to her eye, and a giant wrench of unmistakeable design holstered across her back, all of which belie at least partial gnommish heritage.

He sets the photo down in the box and picks up another of the objects. Flipping it over reveals it to be another photograph, this one most likely older than the last.

They’re _all_ photographs, he realises. A snippet of an old tale dashes through the back of his mind and an idea starts to niggle, but he pushes it aside. No need to jump to conclusions, especially not with so little evidence.

The photograph currently in his hand is of Cysero and a young girl with teal hair and green eyes, clearly sitting in the branch of a tree in an orchard. She’s grinning at the camera and has a green apple in her hand, identical to the ones born by the branches in the background.

A part of him chides him for going through what is so clearly a _personal_ belonging, but the curious part of him just can’t help himself. He lets himself slip from crouching to sitting, his legs halfway tucked under him.

The next one is Cysero and an individual who looks to be some kind of elf. At least, he’s pretty sure that they’re an elf, though he can identify which type. There are a lot of elven species and for the life of him he can’t remember which ones have green hair and blue-purple skin.

The fourth looks more recent than the others, showing his flatmate and another young woman, this one holding a frying pan who has firey red hair tied back in a pleat.

The fifth picture is much, _much_ older and gives him such a shock that it feels like his heart has stopped. His fingers go loose and he very nearly drops the photograph.

It’s _Jaania_, looking exactly as he remembers her, smiling brightly at the camera. Through the trees behind the two, there’s a wall visible, and his heart _pangs_ as he realises that this picture must have been taken the very same day that she first arrived in Swordhaven.

He sets that photograph down in the box with a shaking hand. The idea in the back of his head is starting to grow and become harder to shove back down. He debates with himself whether or not he should pick up the next photo.

The part of him that wants to not do so, that wants to just get up and walk away, loses.

He wishes it hadn’t.

His hand shakes all the more and he closes his eyes. It does nothing to dispel the image of the photograph though, right there in his mind’s eye as though painted onto the back of his eyelids.

_Alex._

Younger than he had ever known him, certainly. He’s not sure if he could even estimate an age for him but he’s probably early teens at most and still undeniable and recognisably _Alex. _Cysero is crouching down next to him, looking just the same as ever, grinning at the camera and making bunny ears behind the young boy’s head. Behind them he can see the buildings of Lymcrest.

Without prompting, his mind layers fire over the image, roaring and burning and destroying and-

His eyes fly open and he drops the photo into the box with a slight gasp, snapping himself out of the unwanted images. He tucks his shaking hands against his stomach, closing his eyes again, and sits and just _breathes _for a few moments.

This is what he gets for prying, he supposes. Brought it on himself, didn’t he, really? He really shouldn’t go snooping through someone else’s belongings.

Magic tingles at his fingertips.

The idea is still nagging at the back of his mind. Curiosity prowls around him like the cat it always kills.

He opens his eyes again and flicks his fingers in a small, swift movement.

Every photo remaining on the floor flips over.

The photos all vary in age, that much is immediately visible. Most of the faces are unfamiliar but a few… a few he knows.

The idea isn’t in the back of his head anymore.

He sweeps up the photos and puts them all back in their box, fits the lid back on and picks the box up, standing in the same movement. He strides over to the table and sets it down.

On his side of the line.

He pulls out a chair and sits down, pulling a tome on ancient languages over from one of the many piles of books lying around the room, and settles in to wait. Cysero is rarely home, but he’s seen all the signs of him being home and sticking around for a while recently, and he’ll have to come to the kitchen either to eat or to pick up his box eventually.

And they _really_ need to talk.

* * *

He startles to wakefulness when the book slips from his hand and _thuds_ against the floor. He blinks blearily at the room around him, the lightning look almost like it’s dusk. Or possibly dawn. A midway time, at least.

Cysero is sitting in the chair on the other side of the table, the box just to his side and open, and number of photos spread in front of him. There’s a slightly curved twig sitting on the box’s lid. That’ll be how he got the box back across the line without crossing it himself, then.

“Ever the scholar’s mind, huh?” Cysero says. His head doesn’t move in the slightest but Warlic feels the sudden sensation of being looked at and knows he must have looked up under his hair.

“Wha-?” is his supremely intelligent reply.

Cysero just smiles, rather more cryptically than he usually does, and holds up one of the photos, the back with the writing facing Warlic.

“It was the writing that got you, wasn’t it?” he says, something almost sad in his tone “A language that you don’t recognise, let alone _know._ That’s what grabbed your attention,”

He feels himself snap from still half asleep to focused and aware in an instant.

“Ah, _there_ you are,” Cysero says, very quietly as though he doesn’t mean to be heard.

Cysero then places the photo back down on the table, back facing up, and fans out several other photos in a line alongside it, all with their backs facing up. He sits back slightly with a small smile and seems to just… watch.

Warlic’s brain makes the connection it didn’t before in a millisecond.

“They’re dates,” he says.

“Mostly. Also names, and notes on differences and stuff,” Cysero says, sweeping the photos back up and dropping them all into the box again. “But that’s not what you wanted to talk about, is it?”

“You’re the Man In Green,” Warlic says.

Cysero shrugs, picks up the twig and fiddles with it.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he says, sounding somewhere between flat and amused.

“I have so many questions,” Warlic says, his own voice incredibly flat because he isn’t entirely sure which emotion to go with.

Cysero’s mouth quirks in a way that indicates it was probably accompanied by an eyebrow. Warlic takes it for the silent invitation that it is.

“Why?” he starts with, summarising about five questions with one.

“Long story,” Cysero answers.

“_How?”_ is his next one. There are structures older than _he_ is in some of those – and he’s not entirely sure he’s talking about his human self when he says that.

“Long story,” Cysero says again, shrugging “Same long story, actually,”

“Will you _tell_ me the long story?” Warlic asks.

“It’ll take a while,”

“I have time,”

* * *

“Wow,” Warlic says, when the long story is finished. “…_wow,”_

“Yeah,” Cysero says.

Warlic looks at the box of photographs.

“So those are all…?”  
  
“People I knew before the Reset, yeah,” Cysero says, looking at it almost wistfully. “Not all of them. There’s some I haven’t found yet and some refuse to take a picture with me, so it’s not ever going to be _all_ of them, but…”

He shrugs.

“I’m sorry,” Warlic says.

Cysero shrugs again.

“For what?” he asks “There wasn’t anything you could have done to change it, and it’s a time long gone now anyways. I’ve… come to terms with it. Mostly,”

There’s silence for a moment.

“Act_ually_…” Cysero says, breaking the silence and drawing out the word “…this does remind me of something,”

And then there’s a device in his hand that Warlic has never seen before but finds eerily familiar all the same.

“I never got _your_ picture,” Cysero says, gesturing with the device. “Would you mind?”

Warlic smiles.

“I’d love to,” he says.


End file.
